


The Hot Humid Night

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt works in security, Jaskier is a bartender, M/M, Modern AU, he makes amazing cocktails, romantic suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23480977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: Modern AU. Jaskier works in an exotic bar and when he isn't mixing drinks and flirting over tips, he's married to his lute, gigging when he can. When a mysterious stranger turns up at closing one night, Jaskier has no idea how his world will change.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 117





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to @flowerymoonlight for the beta!

The bar hopped with music and bodies as Jaskier mixed cocktails and poured shots into glasses, then thrust those glasses into the hands of happy people. 

A quarter past midnight on a Saturday and the Djinn was as busy as ever, the big skylight in the center of the dance floor showing off an impressive full moon hanging heavy in the pitch-black curtain of the night sky.

He liked to show off a little as he mixed cocktails, put a bit of a show into it. After all, Yen would never have hired him if he didn’t have a little something “extra;” everyone working at the Djinn did. 

Jaskier gently set a freshly mixed Cleopatra in front of an awestruck girl who looked barely old enough to drink (she would be though, the doormen here were rigorous). The neon-green drink came wrapped in a pandan leaf, smoke winding from a stick hidden in the depths of the liquid.

She tipped him generously and Jaskier sent her a flirty wink. Never hurt to treat ‘em sweet.

A time or two -  _ okay, a lot of the time _ \- he even ended up going home with a girl, or a guy, from the Djinn. Yen didn’t give two shits as long as he was discreet and didn’t ruin business.

Jaskier wasn’t worried. Romance came as easily to him as breathing, as did moving on to the next pretty face to inspire the ballads he composed when he wasn’t mixing drinks.

Everyone knew the score, no one got offended or broken-hearted.

“Jaskier, my man,” called a voice, and Jaskier turned from mixing another drink to see his friend Alek propping up the bar, his shaggy fair hair turning flashing pink under the overhead lighting. “Another.”

Jaskier served the waiting girls their drinks - one Princess of Moscow, one Manhattan - and then started building Alek his usual, a Mint Julep, made extra sweet with a generous dash of maple syrup. “Keeping busy, friend?”

“Always.” Alek flashed his trademark lady-killer smile, and Jaskier knew the blond wouldn’t be going home alone tonight. Lucky lady. He and Alek had danced the horizontal tango a time or two, but that fire had burned out quickly and they’d never revisited that time.

He deftly slid the drink over the glossy wood of the bartop and Alek caught it, taking a sip. “That’s the stuff. Doing well on tips?”

“Never been better.” The tips alone would pay for the repairs on his car. He needed to treat the old girl better, particularly as she got him to gigs the subway wouldn’t reach. His car was his second most treasured possession after the lute that never left his side. 

He glanced behind him, pleased to see her propped up behind the bar, safe. He never let the instrument out of his sight. 

She had saved him, in every way a man could be saved, once, and he had never forgotten it.

A girl - flyaway black hair, heavy on make-up and light on clothing, tugged on Alek’s arm. He nodded to her, mouthing something, then saluted Jaskier. “Later, dude.”

“Sure. Enjoy,” Jaskier called to them. The girl tugged Alek, drink and all, on to the writhing dancefloor.

He watched them for a few moments, stacking glasses cleaned hot by the dishwasher in the back. The dancers’ bodies moved like water, the moonlight from the skylight kissing sliding bare flesh.

“A Damascus, please.”

The deep voice made Jaskier look up from his reverie, and he stepped back in surprise. The man at the bar easily had a full head on him. Dark amber eyes gazed out from a face that could have been carved by a master sculptor. Silver-grey hair brushed broad shoulders.

“Sure.” Jaskier regained his composure quickly. Beautiful people came into the bar all the time, the Djinn was known for it. Beautiful patrons, beautiful staff. Come for entertainment, magic cocktails, and perhaps a magical hookup too. The request for a mocktail at this hour surprised him, but some people were still sensible in this day and age.

He mixed the drink and didn’t miss the way the customer’s gaze flitted about the room, as if on alert. Not relaxed, like others here for drinking and shagging and sex-standing-up dancing.

Money exchanged hands as Jaskier slid the drink across the bar. The stranger looked wary as if expecting trouble. Why? They had security on the door, like always. Everyone’s ID had been checked, as always. Suspicious characters patted down or turned away. Anyone arriving drunk was an auto-refuse.

“Are you okay?” Jaskier heard himself say.

The stranger paused in lifting the drink to his lips. “Hmmm.” He hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Thanks.”

As he turned to go, Jaskier noticed two things; his excellent ass in black jeans and a worn paperback copy of  _ The Count of Monte Cristo _ stuffed in his left pocket.

The night wore on. Jaskier made fewer tips as the clock moved towards two a.m, and before long he rang the bell that hung above the bar. 

“Last call, ladies and gentlemen!”

His colleague Lena served another couple of drinks - soft this time - to two guys old enough to have grown kids. As bodies moved, as promises were made to share beds until dawn - or at least until the beer glasses wore off - Jaskier spied the white-haired stranger sitting alone in a booth, a glass of soda water with lemon before him, the paperback in his hand. 

And he sat there still after Jaskier had waved off Alek and his new beau with the heavy make-up and light clothes, and after Lena had cleaned her half of the bar. 

As Jaskier stifled a yawn, he moved to the stranger's booth.

"As much as I'm enjoying this-" he circled a finger "brooding mystery you have going on, we're closed."

The stranger folded over a corner of the page he was reading. "Sorry. Got lost in the book. Can I help you pack up?"

Jaskier eyed the man's biceps and thought you can help me with something. But he said; "Thanks, but we can't have the public here after two. Insurance or something."

The stranger stood. "Yen didn't tell you? I'm here for security."

"Ah, no. She didn't." Jaskier stuffed his hands in his pockets, trying to decide if he had been cursed or blessed. "I'm"-

"Jaskier."

"Of course. You know. Of course, you know," Jaskier sighed.

"I'm Geralt." He held out his hand, long palm, wide fingers, and Jaskier shook it, feeling calluses.

"Well. You might as well make yourself useful," Jaskier decided. "Would you prefer to mop the floor or unload the washer?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt helps close the Djinn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta, @flowerymoonlight !

Jaskier had tossed off the little quip partly out of annoyance that Yen had kept him out of the loop, partly to see if a man who read classics and eschewed alcohol was too high and mighty to mop the floor.

But Geralt surprised him.

Jaskier surreptitiously glanced over at the taller man’s biceps as he worked. He was  _ all _ muscle in a really delicious way, built like a tank but beautiful with it. Not a lot of that about. Jaskier knew; he’d looked.

“So why the sudden need for security?” Jaskier asked as he followed Geralt’s path, setting bar stools on the freshly cleaned wooden bar tops.

Geralt  _ swooshed _ the mop along the floor, making the cherrywood gleam. “Yen said you’d had a couple break-ins.”

“Well, we have, but it’s not the best area - no one middle class really wants this sort of… establishment near their kids’ schools,” Jaskier snorted.

In the background, his favourite Buddha Bar playlist floated through the air as they cleaned, the unique electro-ethnic sound captivating and relaxing at once. It was Jask ier’s go-to for winding down at the end of a shift or gig.

“And what sort of establishment  _ is _ this?” Geralt asked, the expression on his handsome face difficult to fathom.

“You know. Fancy cocktails, fancy cock teases. Take someone home with you, avoid being alone, the usual.”

Geralt gazed at him for a long time, and Jaskier had the uneasy sense that the white-haired man saw right through him, through the sometimes-false cheer and the bravado and lazy wit. Then he bent back to the task of mopping and the moment passed.

“Hmmm,” the larger man said at length.

Jaskier overturned another stool as Middle Eastern music filled the space between their bodies. “So you’ll, what, brood around here after I leave to make sure no one smashes the windows in and takes all our booze?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“And you don’t find that boring?”

One pale brow arched. “I’m not easily bored.”

They finished cleaning without words after that. Jaskier had to admit that Geralt did a fine job, leaving no patch, not even a small one, uncleaned. 

Once done, Jaskier checked the safe, the fridge, the stocks. 

Geralt sat at his booth, leafing through his book. A stray curl of his grey-white hair had come loose from the half-up, half-down style he wore it in, and Jaskier found himself wondering if it would be soft. 

How Geralt’s amber eyes might look if he tucked that lock of hair behind Geralt’s ear.

_ I’m tired, _ he thought, and slammed the industrial fridge door shut.

“Okay, I’m done,” he called out into the space of the bar, shutting off the music, pulling the plug on all but the permanent lighting they had - the lighting  _ meant _ to deter thieves.  _ Whatever. _

Jaskier snagged his coat and threaded his arms through it. 

Slinging his satchel over one shoulder, he grabbed his lute and headed for the door, keys in his other hand.

“Walk you to your car?” Geralt asked as Jaskier unlocked the staff door.

Rolling his eyes, Jaskier shook his head. “Thanks, but I don’t think Yen’s paying you to watch my skinny arse.”

Geralt shoved the paperback in his pocket. “All the same,” he rumbled.

“For fuck’s sake.” Jaskier pointed at the ancient Ford Mustang. Poor thing had seen far better days. “It’s  _ there. _ ”

“Hmmm,” Geralt replied, which wasn’t really a reply at all.

“Fine.” So over whatever this was, so ready for his usual post-work dreamless sleep, Jaskier slapped his set of the keys to the Djinn into Geralt’s wide-palmed hand, and headed for his car. 

He dug the keys from his pocket and opened the passenger door first, tossing in his satchel, then laying his lute on the seat like he would a baby, or a precious, fragile possession. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow night?”

“Guess so,” Geralt said calmly, his amber eyes unreadable. 

Jaskier plugged the key into the ignition.  _ Click, click, click. _

No familiar rumble of the engine. He tried again.  _ Click. _

“Jaskier,” Geralt called. Jaskier ignored him.

“Jaskier,  _ get out of the car, now!” _

The sudden, sharp rise in decibels of Geralt’s voice, combined with the urgency, had Jaskier scrambling to obey. 

Out of habit, he lunged for his lute just as Geralt bodily grabbed his shoulders and hauled him away from the car.

Jaskier turned on him, eyes wild. 

“What the  _ fuck, _ dude-”

_ BOOM. _

Both men turned back, Jaskier’s mouth agape, as Jaskier’s beloved, ancient Mustang exploded, the bonnet blowing clean off, bouncing once, with a sickening screech of metal on the parking lot concrete.

Geralt yanked out his phone to call the fire brigade as Jaskier stood frozen, his gaze riveted on the fire. The flames danced and licked, created and destroyed, achingly bright against the pitch night sky.

He watched his beloved car burn, and clutched his lute like a lifeline. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that Geralt kept one arm firm around him as he spoke to the fire brigade in that deep, raspy voice.

It was a good thing, because Jaskier was sure his legs would have buckled beneath him already, otherwise.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt takes Jaskier away from the bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta, @flowerymoonlight !

Jaskier sat on the curb outside the Djinn, numb, as two police officers poked around what remained of his car. He clutched his lute like the lifeline it was.

Geralt stood off to the side, talking to one of the fire officers who had arrived to douse the fire from his vehicle.

When the officer’s phone started to chirp and he moved away to take a call, Geralt crouched down beside Jaskier. “You okay?”

Jaskier stared at him for a long second. “Are you perhaps short of a marble?! Of course I’m not  _ okay _ !”

“Right,” Geralt grumbled. “Any idea who would want to kill you?”

“Who would want to - are you  _ insane? _ I’m a bartender with a band. What could I  _ possibly _ have done to make someone want to kill me?” He hugged his lute with one arm and scrubbed his free hand over his face. “I just want to go home.”

Geralt shot him an incredulous look. “Out of the question. It won’t be safe. Your car was targeted, what makes you think they won’t know where you live? A hotel would be safer.”

“Oh right, because I have the money for that. In a city. On a Saturday night.” He choked out a laugh. “Thanks for that brief comedy interlude.”

The larger man huffed, arms folded, about to speak when the female police officer crossed over to them, her face set in hard lines. “Mr Pankratz?”

Jaskier looked up miserably. 

“Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt you?”

“I guess there’s Valdo and the Marxes-”

“I’ve not heard of them,” the officer interjected, scribbling on her pad.

“There is some justice in the world, then. They’re my main competition on the gig circuit,” Jaskier replied weakly, struggling for humour.

The officer smiled politely, somehow making his joke feel even more pathetic, her silhouette backlit by the bright, full moon. “Anyone else?”

“No. I’m a musician and a bartender. Who could _possibly_ want to kill me?”

He ignored the loaded glance Geralt sent his way. 

“Well, I’ve given your friend here my contact details, so if you can think of anything at all…. You didn’t see anyone go out to your car this evening?”

“I’ve been mixing drinks all night. I haven’t been out of the building.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes, exhausted beyond anything he’d ever known. 

The officer’s face creased in sympathy. “Try and get some rest, Mr Pankratz.”

“Thanks,” Jaskier mumbled, uncaring about even attempting to be his usual charming self. He couldn’t give a rat’s ass about anything save his car.

The police and the fire brigade bid them goodnight, and Jaskier bent his head to his knees. Maybe if he closed his eyes and opened them again, this would all fade away.

_ No such luck. _

“You can stay at my place,” Geralt rumbled. “I’ll update Yen, she’ll want to know.”

Jaskier could only bring himself to nod weakly.

“Come on. My truck’s this way.”

Following numbly, Jaskier let Geralt lead him to a battered truck, the windows cranked one third open. When the taller man opened the passenger door, a bear-like malamute leaped out, prancing at Geralt’s legs, tongue out, clearly delighted.

“Roach, meet Jaskier,” Geralt said shortly. “In the back, Roach.”

The dog hopped up to obey. Jaskier climbed up into the passenger seat, glimpsing the back seats of the truck folded down, a water bowl and some thick blankets spread out for the enormous dog. He settled the lute in his lap as Geralt started the engine. On the back seats, Roach lay down, his head between his paws, his ears alert as he studied this new human in the truck.

“So you really have no idea who did this,” Geralt mused as they drove along the mostly deserted highway.

“You say that like you’re expecting me to reveal that I’m a secret millionaire or something.”

Geralt flicked him a glare. “Are you?”

“For fuck’s sake.  _ No. _ I’m a bartender and a musician and I live in a studio flat. I sleep around, but I’m not a cock. I don’t cheat and I don’t break hearts. And even if I had cheated, would you blow up someone’s car if they ran around on you?”

Geralt raised a brow, clearly thinking it over.

“Oh for God’s sake. No one  _ normal _ would. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe…” He yawned hugely. “Can we at least stop by my flat so I can get something to sleep in?”

“No. You can borrow something of mine.”

“Please.” He barely heard the word from his own lips, but Geralt apparently had. The larger man bit off a soft curse. “Fine. But five minutes and not a second more.”

“You’d be amazed at what I can do in five minutes,” Jaskier mumbled, trying to cheer himself up. Surprise darted through him at the quick flare of heat in Geralt’s gaze, and tensing of his muscles.  _ Oh. Maybe he'd like to find out..? _

Geralt returned his attention to the road that stretched ahead, and the moment passed without comment. “What’s the address?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt takes Jaskier to his apartment to retrieve some stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter not beta read (we die like men).

Geralt’s truck pulled up on Jaskier’s street, and the scant second the larger man cut the engine, Jaskier was out of the door. Roach barked impatiently, wanting to follow.

Geralt motioned for the dog to be quiet and then let him out of the vehicle, too.

“Fuck.” Jaskier dug in his pockets for his keys and came up empty. “I left keys in the ignition, and the car exploded. That actually happened,” he muttered, feeling like he might vomit.

Geralt folded his arms. “Sorry for dragging you away from your death,” he said mildly.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Fuck,” he muttered again, but he found all the fight had drained out of him. “What shall we do? I’m on the ground floor.”

“Break a window?”

“That’s always your solution isn’t it? Brute force?”

Geralt shrugged. “It’s usually effective.”

Jaskier stalked up to the building, desperate to be alone and knowing it wouldn’t happen any time soon. 

He cast around for the rock that was usually there, the one with the little kiss of pink on it.

“You keep a key under a _rock_?” Geralt muttered, and Jaskier almost jumped out of his skin.

“Would you wear a bell? Jesus. And yes, I _sometimes_ lock myself out, all right? Is that a crime?” He turned the rock, found the key in the little indent. “The main door is coded, but my apartment needs a key.”

Roach followed them round to the big main door. Jaskier inputted the code and a tired-looking foyer greeted them, one wall lined with nondescript mailboxes. Jaskier passed them without interest; mail could wait. He usually only got bills anyway.

The key fit snugly into the lock of Apartment 2. Jaskier almost stumbled inside, tiredness making his legs weak at the knees. He walked inside and stopped. Something felt… _off._

Geralt shoved him aside. “Gas.”

“What-”

The larger man stalked through Jaskier’s apartment to the small stove, and shut the main switch off. “Your apartment _stinks_ of gas, Jaskier.”

Now that it had been pointed out, Jaskier coughed on the thick, greasy stench of it, rushing to the kitchen window and opening it.

Geralt shook his head, expression grim. “Assuming the car explosion didn’t get you, you’d have come here, passed out from exhaustion, and probably never have woken up.”

Fear cut through Jaskier’s bone-deep tiredness and the mouse of panic skittered down his spine. “This is serious.”

“Oh really? What tipped you off?” Geralt drawled.

Roach had more sympathy, padding over to Jaskier and nosing at his hip. Grateful, Jaskier sank down on to the old grey sofa - a bargain at a yard sale a year ago - and let the dog climb up into his lap. Roach’s tail swished lazily as he snuggled in. 

“Traitor,” Geralt muttered, but began what looked like, to Jaskier, an intensely thorough exploration of the apartment. “Who else has access?” he called from the bathroom.

“No one. Well, Yen I guess. And then there was that time I gave a key to this guy I was seeing, but it didn’t work out-”

“You just _give_ keys to your lovers?” Geralt snarled from the direction of the shower.

“Well, he needed a place to crash for a few nights, and - you know what? We are _not_ having this conversation. I don’t need to justify my life to you.”

He didn’t hear a response. Presumably Geralt was busy judging him some more based on the clutter of his apartment. “Whatever,” he muttered, and suddenly he was pressing his lips closed, trying not to cry.

Roach whined in sympathy, cuddling closer, and before he knew it, Jaskier was burying his face in the malamute’s soft grey fur, tears streaming from his eyes, his body shuddering.

When he lifted his head to take a breath, Geralt stood over him silently, his amber eyes soft. “Fuck,” he murmured.

Jaskier swiped at his eyes. “Just fuck off, why don’t you? With your silent judgement and your inability to say more than three words at once. And you _obviously_ wish I’d been in that car when it went boom.”

He expected Geralt to swipe back, _wanted_ it. Wanted the big, angry fight.

Instead, the taller man simply sank down next to him on the grey sofa and draped his arm over Jaskier, with a sigh.

As much as he tried to resist out of spite, Jaskier was _so tired,_ and so spent, and instead of storming off to bed like the brat he wanted to be, he just leant into Geralt’s solid warmth and closed his eyes.

Some time later, he jerked awake. He was alone, laying on the sofa. He blinked a few times to clear his head. Something tickled his hand and he peered over the edge of the sofa to see Roach lapping at his fingers. So Geralt hadn’t left. Why that reassured him so, he couldn’t say.

He yanked his phone from his pocket. 4am. _Ugh._ Well, it looked like he wouldn't need those PJs that he had insisted Geralt stop here to get.

“Oh good, you’re awake.” Geralt appeared from the direction of the bedroom. 

“Barely.” Jaskier rubbed his eyes, still bleary. “What now?”

“Now we go to my place and I tell my boss what happened. Yennefer knows.”

“And did she say?” Jaskier stretched, trying to ease the kinks out of his shoulders, and not really succeeding. “I never thought it was possible to hear the raise of an eyebrow over the phone until I met her.”

Geralt chuckled, and Jaskier saw with surprise that he was _handsome_ when he smiled. No, _gorgeous._ Wow. “Yes, she manages to convey a lot without words. She hopes you’re okay.”

“She said that?”

“Well, she asked if you were alive.”

“Hmmm, that’s emotional, for her.” Jaskier yawned hugely. “Coffee before we go? Please, I’m barely human without it.” He stood up, heading for the bathroom. “And are we not going to talk about…. Earlier? When you hugged me?”

Geralt was already opening cupboards and taking out mugs. “Why? You didn’t like it?”

Jaskier opened his mouth, then shut it again. “No, I did. I mean…” He pushed his hands through his hair, overtired, still. “Thankyou,” he finished, then closed the bathroom door before he could further make an ass of himself.


End file.
